The Voice That Haunts You
by BrokenGroundsandFlowerCrowns
Summary: Coming home was supposed to be the easy part. Now, suffering from auditory hallucinations, Sherlock refuses to acknowledge that the past months and years in his life have left a jarring impact on him. With John back in Baker Street, he knows that it's only a matter of time before his world crumbles apart once again.
1. Chapter 1

"You're so stupid, Sherlock. So slow," whispered John. He hovered over him, glaring. Sherlock heard people yelling in Serbian in the distance. "You've done us no good. I didn't miss you."

A gun was pointed at him. Mary held it, and pulled the trigger.

Moriarty appeared then, and Sherlock noticed that his childhood dog Redbeard lay still behind the consulting criminal. "You're so useless, so boring. Couldn't save them. Can't save yourself."

All at once, the sensation of falling overwhelmed him.

"Stop!" Sherlock yelled. His head pounded, and he reached for a gun that wasn't there. "Stop," he said once more, voice hoarse. Where am I? The gun, where is it?

"Sherlock?"

Giving a small start, Sherlock stared at John for a few moments before the tension melted from his body. Home. He was home, on the sofa. John had moved in a month ago, three months after Sherlock had been shot. Mary had lied about her past, pregnancy, and name. The marriage had been annulled, and John had moved back into the flat.

 _"I don't want you here. I'm going to leave to find someone else, someone better,"_ hissed John's voice in his head.

"Sherlock. Look at me." John sat on the sofa, though he was careful not to touch him. "I'm right here. You're safe. We're at Baker Street."

Sherlock looked over at the other, moving a bit closer to John. "Sorry I-I just had a nightmare."

John frowned, gaze flickering over the other. "You sure?" He nodded. "You want to talk about it?"

He hadn't told John about the auditory hallucinations. What was there to say? They had started when he'd spent two and a half months tortured in a cell in Serbia, and they'd never disappeared. He'd seen a psychiatrist when he'd first gotten home, per Mycroft's request. Sherlock had lied about everything.

He was fine. No lasting issues. Everything was physical, no mental scars, and he was eager to continue his life as it had been, thank you, now wouldn't she go ask someone else questions?

"No. Just...not right now."

John gave a little sigh, but didn't press Sherlock. "If you're sure. It's just that it's the third time it's happened within the past week. I think you'd be better sleeping in your bed than on the sofa, really."

Sherlock stood, heading into the kitchen to make tea. His hands shook.

 _"Johnny boy is lying to you. Can't you see that?"_ Moriarty said.

"No," whispered Sherlock.

John was beside him, grabbing a mug for tea himself. "What?" he asked when Sherlock spoke.

He shook his head. "Nothing."

Sighing once more, John said, "I'm here whenever you want to talk to me. I'm sure you'll be your usual stubborn self and take a little while, but I'm here when you want to talk. I just want you to feel better. I know these things take a long time to go away, nightmares, or night terrors."

 _"Why the hell,"_ spat John in his mind, _"would I want to talk to you? I'm only saying that. I'm going to leave."_

Sherlock finished drinking his tea and moved to the sofa again. Although it took a few hours, he fell asleep to the sound of the telly that John turned on at some point.

Early the next morning, John came into the living room. Sherlock wasn't there. "Sher-?" He cut himself off when he heard something from the restroom. John cringed when he heard Sherlock retching.

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock shuffled out from the loo, eyes glassy and red. Without a word, John offered him a glass of water, and without a word, Sherlock took it. John parted his lips to speak, but instead gave the detective a pat on the shoulder while they each turned to make their breakfasts, thoughts lingering on one another.


	2. Chapter 2

The microorganisms would react differently if he added an additional control and changed the variable of-

"Sherlock, c'mon. We just finished a case," said John. Sherlock could practically feel the other hovering behind him. "I just ordered takeaway. We're watching crap telly, and you're going to stop whatever absurd experiment you're working on."

With a little sigh, he stood. "It's an interesting experiment, thank you." Sherlock gave John a small smile. "And, takeaway and crap telly sounds like a good enough plan, so long as we're not watching one of your absurd Bond films."

John's voice whispered to him, _I hate you._

But John was here, and asking him to do something, and it wasn't true. Sherlock walked to the sofa and tried to settle on a channel that was showing something that was dramatic enough to make fun of, but not too stupid to watch.

Takeaway arrived, and Sherlock nibbled at it at John's insistence. The gunshots in the film made Sherlock grimace, and John turned the channel. The evening was going quite well until Sherlock heard a knock at the door. The way someone knocked made Sherlock think it was someone for a case.

"I'll get it." John stood, setting his carton of food aside.

"No, I can get it," said Sherlock, perhaps a bit too eagerly. "Not that I'm not enjoying the film, but I just..."

 _You're afraid you're going to fail. You will._ He could hear the unkind smile in Moriarty's voice.

John watched Sherlock ball his hands into fists, crescent moons on his palms from his fingernails. "Listen, Sherlock, are you okay?"

Sherlock gave a small nod, though he was terrified of actually explaining matters to John. "Can I talk to you about it after this person?"

"After this person."

Thankful for John's agreement, Sherlock walked downstairs. He looked outside before opening the door just a bit. A man in his mid-to-late twenties stood outside; he worked as a cook of sorts, thought Sherlock, able to see a dusting of flour on his jeans, an apron poking out of the backpack he wore. Sherlock looked the man over immediately, not seeing any weapons on him. "Yes?" asked Sherlock.

"You're Sherlock Holmes, right? I need your help with something. My cousin died recently, and everyone's saying it was an accident, but I don't think it was."

"Give me your contact information and I'll speak with you later," said Sherlock. "What's your name?"

"Andrew." The man had paused before giving his name, coughing. Sherlock wondered if he was lying. "Give me a mo, I have a business card in my wallet."

Sherlock waited, looking up at the flat every few seconds. He tapped his foot, and when he looked over at Andrew, the man was grabbing his wallet. A glint of silver made Sherlock's heart drop, and he moved forward. Before he could think of what he was doing, he'd yanked the man's wallet away and pinned him back against the outside window of Speedy's.

"Oi, what the hell! Let go of me!" snapped Andrew.

"What were you reaching for in your wallet? A knife?" Sherlock stared at the man.

"My card! There was a bloody key in there for my flat, look for yourself."

Sherlock kept where he was, but looked at the ground. He could just make out the outline of a key. After a few moments of silence, Sherlock withdrew. Andrew spit on his shoes, storming off, and Sherlock kept where he was for a few seconds before heading upstairs. He locked the door and walked into the room.

One look at Sherlock, and John knew something was off. "What happened?"

"It wasn't a legitimate case." He shrugged. "It's fine. It doesn't matter."

John shook his head and crossed his arms. "Sherlock, I think we should talk. I know you're obviously not in the mood, but we need to talk. As a doctor and as your friend, I think something's wrong."

The detective looked at John. He'd caught sight of his reflection in the windows of Speedy's, tense, eyes wild, nostrils flaring. _Monster. Machine._ Sherlock couldn't tell if the thoughts had been his own. "I don't know what you want me to say."

John sat on the sofa. His expression said 'we're doing this now,' and John gestured for John to sit beside him. "I just want you to tell me what's going on in your head." He paused before continuing, "Your brother's talked to me. He phoned the other day and said he was worried about you. You've just been jumpy, and you zone out at random times, and you've had a lot of nightmares recently. I just want to help.

His nose wrinkled in disdain. Sherlock crossed his arms. "So you're doing this all because of Mycroft?"

"Christ, Sherlock, no. I'm doing this because I care."

 _Freak._

John's voice made Sherlock jump. "What?"

"I said I'm doing this because I care."

"You..." Sherlock shook his head. Things were fine. He didn't want to burden John. "I'm just a little stressed." He gave John a small smile. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to alarm either of you."

John frowned. "Why're you stressed?"

"Because I'm just a little jumpy after being gone for so long." That much was true, at least. "I'm working on it."

Their mobiles both buzzed, and Sherlock looked at the text, rolling his eyes while John grumbled under his breath. John trudged to the doorway along with Sherlock, wo was reluctant to leave the flat, especially considering the feeling he had about what was going to happen.

I need to speak to you both. It isn't optional. A car is on its way. -MH


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft's home was the last place Sherlock wanted to be. Of course, he had a few other residences in London, but, for now, this was the primary residence. There were large chandeliers in almost every room, and the furniture looked as if it could be inside Buckingham Palace. The rooms were all shades of beige or pastels, and it struck him as mind-numbing (but the colours were proper and inoffensive, as his brother tried to be as a "minor" figure in the British government, and so Sherlock wasn't surprised).

"So, what're we here for? I'm sure you know already, don't act oblivious," John said.

Sherlock sat down on one of the sofas, scowling. The sofa felt as if it had never been used, the cushions starchy. Immediately, he caught sight of a folder on the coffee table. "We're here because Mycroft's an idiot who's paranoid about everything."

Well, maybe it wasn't Mycroft who was the paranoid one.

John stood, looking around with crossed arms. "Know where the loo is in this maze?"

Sherlock nodded, leading John to the loo before looking heading into the sitting room. He grabbed the folder. Skimming over the papers and seeing they were his full medical records—a broken leg and fractured wrist at age five; overdose at 19; overdose at 25; lacerations, an infection, malnutrition, and dehydration from Serbia, photographs that he didn't recall being taken included; a gunshot wound that resulted in cardiac arrest for two and a half minutes from John's ex-wife.

 _Freak. What the hell is wrong with you with all of this? Why would I ever want to spend time with someone who's so broken?_

Sherlock didn't know what to think of John's words he heard in his mind.

"Find anything interesting?"

He turned around, staring at his older brother. "You can't go around holding onto my medical records and use them as ammunition."

"I'm not going to do that. I just think John needs to understand your full history, and understand you have reason to act as you are."

Sherlock gritted his teeth together. "And how's that?"

"Pushing a potential client into a wall because you're paranoid they're out to get out," said Mycroft. "Don't try and deny it."

John walked into the sitting room, eyebrows raised. Mycroft filled him in as Sherlock slumped onto the sofa. John sat behind him, listening. He looked at Sherlock to confirm his brother's words, and Sherlock only gave a small nod in confirmation.

"I'm concerned that you have psychological issues that aren't being dealt with." The elder Holmes slid the folder towards John. "If my little brother consents, the last few medical files may be of interest to you as a doctor."

The detective stared at the floor. John said he didn't need to look at anything, but Sherlock shook his head and muttered that it was fine. He'd rather John read it than have to relive everything himself.

John began to read of the files. His heart dropped as he read them, and he couldn't help but give a little sigh. He suspected Sherlock had gotten into trouble while away, but he hadn't known specifics. John's hand clenched; Sherlock's did, too.

"Mycroft, please." Sherlock's voice was soft, almost pleading.

With Mycroft's lack of response, John looked between the two Holmes brothers. Then, he stood. "I think he needs to talk to someone else. A different psychologist or psychiatrist, if he feels it's appropriate." John cleared his throat, saying, "We can't force anyone to do anything. You're nothing if not stubborn, right?" He tried to offer Sherlock a small smile of reassurance. "You'll do things your way. And, if there are problems, we'll sort things out."

 _Stubborn, and stupid. Worthless,_ said Moriarty.

"Right." Sherlock stood, walking alongside John. It was the shortest visit he'd had with his brother in memory. He listened to Mycroft say that he needed to be careful, not to do anything idiotic. Sherlock only nodded.

The same black car took them home. For a few minutes, they remained silent before John spoke up.

"What happened when you were five?"

Sherlock welcomed the change in discussion; he didn't want to talk about his current mental health status, because it terrified him. "Redbeard, my dog, ran out in front of a car, and I followed him, because I thought I could stop him. He actually ended up in better shape than me when it was all said and done."

John looked at him, lips twitching into a fond smile. "I see. Always the hero." He nudged Sherlock, hoping to elicit a smile, which he did. "I'm only halfway kidding. I just mean to say that you're a good person, then and now."

He looked at John, wondering why he loathed himself so much if what John said was true. "I'm glad you think so," he said quietly.


	4. Chapter 4

Two days after speaking with Mycroft, Sherlock decided he needed to talk to John. He hadn't slept since they'd spoken with his brother, and he found that lack of sleep made the auditory hallucinations worse (and the auditory hallucinations made sleep nearly impossible). He was sick of Moriarty's taunts and John's disappointment; his head felt full, as if all of his thoughts were competing for space.

Walking into the kitchen wearing his blue dressing gown, Sherlock said, "If you're not busy, I can explain to you what's been going on since I've gotten home. However, I'd prefer you promise not to look at me like a kicked dog, and I'd also prefer if you refrained from acting as a doctor immediately."

John looked up from where he sat at the kitchen table. Nudging a beaker of God-knew-what aside, he nodded. "Of course. I'm your friend first. No snarky remarks about you being mad, even, because I already know you are."

He made himself smile at John's last remark. "Thank you." Fidgeting with the mug of coffee John had made for him, Sherlock sat down opposite the other. "I've had difficulty adjusting. It's been months, and it still doesn't feel like it's over."

"Like you're still gone?"

"Sort of; I just don't feel like being home is permanent. I just feel as if I'm ready to run at any moment if needed. Everyone I don't know is a potential threat. That's the way things were when I was gone, because there were people who were part of Moriarty's web after me, and by extension, after you all." He paused for a few moments before giving a little shake of his head. "Rationality isn't at the forefront of my mind, it seems, and I hate that," he said. Sherlock drummed his fingers against the tabletop.

Licking his lips, John said, "That must be hard for you." His voice was calm, level.

Sherlock stopped drumming his fingers, instead tapping Morse code. _S O S._ "I've been having auditory hallucinations." He kept his gaze fixed on the table. "I don't believe it's schizophrenia. It's only been two voices, ones of people I've known or know now." He dared a quick look up at John.

John looked at Sherlock, lips pursed before giving a little sigh. He had to resist the urge to give his medical opinion. PTSD, he suspected. He also resisted the urge to tap something back in reply. "How long has that been going on? And, you don't need to look embarrassed, Sherlock. Without going into it too much, I've seen lots of soldiers have similar experiences."

He wasn't sure if that made him feel better or worse. "I wasn't a soldier, though."

"Maybe you weren't enlisted, but you did a hell of a good job protecting people." John looked away for a few seconds before looking at Sherlock. "I never thanked you for that. As much as it was fucking hell, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, and me, we're all still alive. So, thank you."

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't want you to thank me."

"Too bad."

He gave a small huff, though Sherlock grinned. "Stubborn git."

John grinned, though it faded a bit. "So, next time it happens, what do you want me to do, if anything? What could you do that could help?"

"I don't know. Nothing I've tried has helped. Not that I even know what I've tried." Sherlock cleared his throat, saying, "Next time it happens, I'll tell you."

Their conversation ebbed and flowed, the two poking fun at one another every now and again to lighten the mood. He told him that he'd been hearing the two voices for a year and a few months. Sherlock explained in minimal detail things that had occurred while he was away, things that had left him scarred. John cringed whilst Sherlock explained being trapped in Serbia for two months before Mycroft came to bring him home. When finally Sherlock stopped speaking, he was grateful for John's calm demeanour.

John stood, walking over to Sherlock and giving his shoulder a small squeeze. "Thanks for telling me. You're not really crazy. You know that. You just went through a lot, and we'll figure things out."

Without thought, Sherlock turned to grasp onto the other's hand when he turned to walk away. Sherlock's face burned, and he held onto John's hand for a moment or two before saying, "Thank you, John."

Looking at their intertwined hands, John smiled. "Of course. I owe you as much." Hand still in Sherlock's, John tugged him upright. "How about you try sleeping in your own room rather than on the sofa tonight."

"I'd rather not. If someone were to come in and I were in my room..." Sherlock trailed off with a shrug, hand dropping from John's. "I'd feel safer on the sofa."

"No, you'd feel safer about me on the sofa."

Sherlock didn't object, because John was right. On the sofa, he could keep people safe. He'd hear someone come in, and could protect Mrs Hudson before anyone came into her flat, and, of course, John, too. Not that John _needed_ protecting, but Sherlock felt as if it was his job. It had been his job for two years.

John tapped his foot for a second or two. "What if we slept in the same room?"

Sherlock stared back at John, doing his best to pretend it was a perfectly normal suggestion. "I suppose that might help for the night."

And so, an hour later, Sherlock was curled up next to John in his room. His heart was beating at approximately 83 beats per minute, which was a high resting heart rate, Sherlock knew, and, sentimental thoughts swirled around his mind.

 _I hate you,_ John whispered in his mind.

Sherlock didn't bother waking John, even though he'd promised to tell him the next time it happened. Besides, John didn't hate him. John was right here. Sherlock closed his eyes, the sound of John's breathing soothing him. He wasn't alone. The person he cared for most was lying beside him.

He recalled smoking in a motel in Paris over a year ago, peering out at the city's lights. The City of Love. What rubbish. Sherlock had extinguished the cigarette, deciding then that, if he were to survive and make it home, he'd tell John how he felt about him, because certainly it couldn't be so hard as that moment had been.

Sherlock had the same thought in Serbia. If he made it out alive, he'd tell him.

He hadn't told him. Something had gotten in the way every time. And now? What was in his way? Sherlock hated thinking about it all. He refused to lose his friendship with John over this.

It was problematic. A better problematic than the hallucinations, but still problematic.

Sherlock fell asleep, and for the first time in months, dreamed not of gunshots, running, or falling, but of John.


	5. Chapter 5

Some days, things were better. Some days, they were worse. Sherlock had forced himself to sit with a psychiatrist, who had diagnosed him with PTSD, saying that though his symptoms were uncommon, they weren't unheard of. He was given advice, techniques that may help ground him (breathing exercises, distractions, physical exercise, etc.), and a small dosage of medication that he could try. If it helped, and there were no negative side-effects, he could gradually up the dosage. Additionally, he met with the psychiatrist once a week. Although Sherlock was thrilled, at least he was trying.

Today was a particularly bad day. _John's going to leave. Why wouldn't he?_ asked Moriarty. _Something's going to happen, and it'll be your fault. You can't protect me._ Sherlock had tried to ignore it, tried to finish the paperwork at the Yard.

The detective took a step back from the desk where the papers lay, rocking on his feet and saying, "I'll come back to these later."

Lestrade sighed. "Sherlock, we need to send these off today, and God help me if I have to write how you figured out it was the brother."

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. _Idiot._ Exhale. _Machine._

Snatching the DI's recorder, Sherlock began to speak. "It was the brother because he used the blood sample from the lab where he worked in place of his own blood, more or less. The blood was linked to the donor who had just left the country the day before the murder. The brother went in and changed the video footage to Tuesday rather than Wednesday; Tuesday showed the donor in the area. However, the brother's DNA, hair, was on the victim. The suspect also confessed to a friend that he'd 'done something irreversible.' We switched the video footage, which showed the suspect there on the day of the murder, and found the weapon in his room." Finishing, he handed the recorder back to Lestrade. "Write that down. Evening."

Slipping by everyone, Sherlock headed home. He was looking forward to be in the flat. Perhaps he'd try playing the violin again. He hadn't played since he'd gotten home. The psychiatrist had suggested it several weeks ago, and Sherlock had rolled his eyes. As if the violin would tear the thoughts away. The only thing that had come close to working was not being alone, and sometimes, even then, the thoughts crept in.

"Home," called Sherlock. He froze as he found himself staring at his parents, sitting on the sofa with a photo album with John, who was smiling.

"Oh, hello," said his mum with a smile. She stood, wrapping her arms around Sherlock and leading him to the sofa. "We decided to pop in for a visit."

The way her voice had jumped at the end of her sentence made Sherlock think she was lying. Brilliant as she was, his father was always better at keeping secrets. Mycroft probably told them to visit. Biting his tongue, Sherlock muttered that it was good to see them and sat down next to John, in between his parents. Eyeing the photo album, Sherlock's face grew warm as he saw the photos of him as a child. "What possessed you to bring this?" Sherlock gestured to the album.

"We thought it'd be fun," said his father with a shrug. "Or, your mum did, at least."

"It's quite fun," John said. He flashed Sherlock a grin and nudged his shoulder. "You look so happy in these photos."

Sherlock leaned over. "Yes. I was." He was quiet for a moment or two before pointing to a photo of Mycroft as a child, jam on his face, a napkin in his hand. "Prim and proper as ever," he chuckled.

John laughed. "Turn the attention on your brother."

Mrs Holmes smiled. "Myc was very neat, yes. Sherlock was a bit like a hurricane."

"If the state of the flat doesn't tell you, he still is," said John.

Gradually, Sherlock relaxed. As much as his parents embarrassed him at times, he knew that they cared. It was also nice to see that John got along with them so well, and they certainly seemed to like John. He'd never introduced them to anyone, really. He'd never had anyone _to_ introduce them to: not as a child, not in university, and not beyond that. Not until now.

His parents left later that evening, hugging the both of them. Shutting the door, Sherlock gave a small shaking of his head, saying, "Mycroft sent them, I'm sure."

John raised his eyebrows. "Why would he do that?"

Sherlock gave a small shrug, waving his hands about. "Because he thought it'd help me in some way, I suppose."

"Did it? Do you feel better now than you did when you got home?" John studied Sherlock, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Yes." His focus was less on the question John asked and more on John himself. Staring back at John, Sherlock couldn't help but crack a smile. _"You_ sent them?"

"I did, yes. They were in the area, to be fair." John put his hands up, grinning. "It did help. You seem happier now than you did when you first got here. Besides, you need to socialise with someone other than me and the people at the Yard every now and again, and your parents are wonderful people." John paused before saying, "That, and I now have wonderful blackmail after seeing those pictures."

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up at this. "Don't think I couldn't blackmail you ten times worse," he said, taking a few steps towards him.

They stood close; only a step more on each of their parts and they'd be nose-to-nose. Sherlock couldn't make himself move, and John seemed just as stuck to the spot as well. It was only a crack of thunder that made them separate, Sherlock giving a small start, crossing his arms.

The remainder of the evening was spent preparing and eating dinner, the each of them displeased about the weather. The rain made John's shoulder ache, and the thunder reminded Sherlock of being trapped in a cell in Serbia: the heavy footsteps of a man coming to whip him had sounded like thunder, echoing. As had become a habit over the past weeks, the two headed to the same bed to sleep next to one another. John had no issue with it, he'd said, and it reminded Sherlock he wasn't alone.

Lying in bed next to John, Sherlock listened to the rain outside. He could hear John's breathing beginning to slow. "Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you for today. I'll return the favour sometime."

"Y'don't need to do that," said John. His voice was heavy with sleep.

Sherlock hummed. "I know. I want to."

Hours later, late in the night, Sherlock padded into the sitting room. He removed his violin from its case, tuning it and dusting it off before beginning to play. John awoke to the sound of a quiet, gentle song, and smiled.


	6. Chapter 6

It happened in the middle of the case.

It wasn't a very complex case. Shouldn't have caused any problems. Sherlock was walking with John, closer than they had in the past. The silence was comfortable; _they_ were comfortable for the first time in a long time.

They were scouting around an area that their suspect had been known to frequent, when the suspect himself showed up. The man was tall, well-built, track marks on his arms. He was desperate for a fix, and, God, if Sherlock didn't know what it was like to feel that way. Knowing Lestrade was nearby, Sherlock began to speak, telling the man in a calm tone that he ought to stay where he was, that he knew he had to feel like hell, and that matters would be sorted out shortly.

Then the man removed a gun.

For a split second, Sherlock was stunned. He felt sick, body tense. No longer was in London: he was in Serbia, on the rooftop, in every place that had ended in violence and made him feel helpless. Everything was spinning, spinning, spinning around him, and all he could think was, _I can't let him kill John._ The suspect removed the safety, and Sherlock sprang into motion, trying to pin the man. They were a tangle of limbs, and the man shouted.

There was a gunshot.

Sherlock's leg felt as if it was on fire. Jaw clenched, head swimming, he stayed on top of the man until John forced him off, all but dragging him away. John, too, held a gun, and aimed it at the suspect's head until Lestrade and his crew arrived.

Lestrade cuffed the man and took the suspect's gun with gloved hands, safely unloading the gun. "Christ, Sherlock."

"It's fine. It-it was just a graze." Sherlock let John force him into an ambulance. He wasn't sure when one had been called. "I don't need to go to the hospital, I'm-"

"Shut the hell up," John said. His voice was low, face pale. "You're going to the damned hospital and getting stitches."

Sherlock stared at John, gaze flickering over his form. There was blood on him, but only from Sherlock's leg. For once, Sherlock didn't argue.

John was sullen throughout the entire process, watching as Sherlock was treated at the hospital. It was more than a graze, but it was just a flesh injury, no bones broken. It only required antibiotics, stitches, gauze, and painkillers. Several times, Sherlock asked if he was all right, though each time he was met with short response of "I'm fine," or, "Don't worry about it."

He'd hoped the painkillers would stop the frantic thoughts. They weren't strong enough to do that, though. Instead, Sherlock found that he couldn't focus on anything anyone was saying, a little drowsy. John spoke to him several times. He looked like he was saying something important. Sherlock could only stare at him with glassy eyes.

By the time they were home, they were both spiraling. Sherlock wasn't entirely lucid, but he was panicked still. _I could have died. How are you protecting anyone? How can_ you _protect anyone?_ asked John in his mind. Sherlock didn't know. He didn't know.

"I'm sorry," said Sherlock, curled up on the sofa next to John. His head was resting against John's chest, injured leg extended towards the opposite end of the sofa. It was as if any progress made by medication or therapy had dissolved in that moment into nothingness, leaving him with the heavy feeling of guilt once again. "I'm sorry that...we were in that position. I meant to help you. I'm sorry. I'm supposed to protect you. I'm sorry."

"Sherlock," John whispered, voice strained. "please stop apologising." He rubbed his jaw with his hand, clearing his throat. "Don't you remember what I said at the hospital? Or were you too excited about everything?"

John's heart was pounding. Sherlock looked up. "I didn't...I don't remember. I'm-"

"I swear, if you apologise..." John didn't finish his sentence. Instead, he exhaled sharply.

"John?"

"I told you that I'm the one who shot you by mistake." John licked his lips, hands in fists. "I meant to shoot him, just in the leg, but you moved so fucking fast. I've never shot someone who didn't deserve it before, Sherlock. And now we have to deal with all of this."

Sherlock watched the way the light from a car outside washed over John's face. There wasn't much colour in his face, and his breaths were short and sharp. Sherlock rested against his chest again. His heart was still pounding. "It doesn't matter."

"I _shot you._ Of course it bloody matters."

Hell if he knew what to do. _John's going to leave._ Sherlock looked up at John before sitting upright, body swaying lightly. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss on his cheek. "We're okay." He didn't care if it was a lie.

Sherlock rested next to John, eventually falling asleep. John pulled a blanket over them both so they could rest, though, they each woke the other up with nightmares throughout the night.

John sat down with Sherlock the next morning while they each sipped at their coffee. Neither had slept well, though Sherlock was lucid. Very little was said between the two of them. Sherlock felt tense, sneaking glances at the other as he read the morning's paper, skimming the obituaries to see if there were any interesting deaths.

Finally, John broke the silence. "I think we're due for a talk."


End file.
